


We mustn't touch what isn't ours

by inusagi



Series: We mustn't... [1]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Dark!Harry, Established Relationship, Harry Lives, M/M, a bit of dog-related violence, but after the church scene is anyone really surprised by violence in the fandom?, but did you know that like 1 in 25 people is a sociopath?, but still pretty canon-typical, everyone undresses with knives right?, harry is a sociopath, i mean that's pretty much the story in a nutshell, i'm probably explaining sociopathy really poorly here, liberal use of italics for emphasis, mentions of past abuse and prostitution, obviously, plus a prologue bc i'm trash, poor eggsy thinks harry's got PSTD or something, seriously possessive behaviour, that is way more than i'd have guessed, there will probably be hella graphic depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3886390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inusagi/pseuds/inusagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Hart is a sociopath, yes, but he's a sociopath who loves Eggsy.</p>
<p>or</p>
<p>5 times Harry showed his true colours and 1 time Eggsy really sees it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: A bit "Silence of the Lambs"

**Author's Note:**

> So, who's stoked about the sequel being confirmed? I'm writing to celebrate. Also, I'm a bit rusty so if something sucks, feel free to let me know. I am particularly concerned about whether the entire concept(/execution of said concept) is too simplistic and whether or not I captured our favourite egg's "voice." 
> 
> Shoutout to [mustardprecum](http://mustardprecum.tumblr.com/) who got me thinking about serial killers and sociopaths on the tumble.
> 
> Standard disclaimer: I don't own Kingsman. I'm pretty sure that's a combination of Mark Millar and Matthew Vaughn, or maybe just Fox. At any rate. Not me.

“All I’m saying,” Eggsy mumbled, gesturing to the butterflies adorning Harry’s walls, “Is that it’s a bit ‘Silence of the Lambs,’ innit?”  
  
“In what way?”  
  
Truth be told, Harry quite liked his butterflies. They gave his home a bit of added flair, and what he supposed was a much-needed touch of femininity. More than that, though, they calmed him—something about the beautiful creatures trapped mid-flutter in their tiny glass prison soothed his soul.  
  
As did his current view of Eggsy. His handsome protégé padded back into the living room, feet and chest still endearingly bare while he scooped up the rest of his scattered clothes.  
  
“The bugs. They’re summat a serial killer would collect. Ya know, like a psycho.”  
  
Harry chuckled and caught Eggsy by the front of his trousers. He settled the boy into his lap, busying himself with lapping at the sweat that still lingered on Eggsy’s throat. It ranked amongst his favourite flavours, all salt and spent adrenaline.  
  
“Sociopath, I think you mean,” he said after a time.  
  
Eggsy huffed. “Wha’s the diff’rence? Whachoo need all that rubbish for?”  
  
“We all must acknowledge stereotypes occasionally, dearest.”  
  
It took a few moments for his words to make it through to Eggsy’s lust-hazed brain. It excited him—sometimes outright aroused him—how easy it was to turn his young lover on, even after he was already shattered by orgasm. _Especially_ after he was already shattered by orgasm.  
  
And, really, Harry supposed it wasn’t fair to hold one to high standards of deduction when there was a warm hand massaging one’s balls.  
  
He saw the moment that it registered, saw the little furrow in Eggsy’s brow, the way those bright, blue-green eyes struggled to focus.  
  
“You takin’ the piss wit’ me?”  
  
Harry steeled himself for laughter, for exclamations of betrayal, for rejection. He didn’t want to _lie_ to the boy. He didn’t want _this_ part of his life to be as much of an act as all the rest. Harry knew, had known from _such_ an impossibly young age, that he was difficult to love. That he was difficult to accept as he was naturally, without the charming and unassuming personality he wore in public. That he was difficult to simply be around without fear.  
  
Harry knew that. He even understood it, really. Who’d want to be around a man who’d rather watch a man bleed to death than an episode of Top Gear? He was completely used to it—even his mother had been terrified of him, after the incident with the neighbour’s cat, and he wasn’t convinced she’d ever honestly loved him—and he’d rarely given it a second thought. Prey simply doesn’t socialize with predators. But, as is usually the case, understanding the lack something has never prevented the longing for it.  
  
And, oh, how he longed for it. The idea of _Eggsy_ accepting him had begun as an idle notion and morphed into nothing short of an obsession. He _wanted_ it like he’d wanted few things in his long life. He _ached_ for it, to come home after a long day at the shop and not have to pretend to give a fuck about starving orphans on the telly or whether the neighbour’s mum is still struggling though chemotherapy. He wanted Eggsy to see the unshakable darkness in his soul and embrace it the same way the blond has always wrapped himself around his body when they’re in Harry’s big, soft bed.  
  
“I’m afraid not. Not a drop of piss.”  
  
Eggsy finally pulled the gun-calloused hands from between his thighs and cupped Harry’s cheek. His eyes were soft—sweet, even—and when he spoke, his voice was gentle. “Is this abou’ the church? Abou’ how Valentine’s signal made you feel?”  
  
He had, of course, struggled with the incident during his long recovery, but he’d never bothered to correct the assumptions about _why_ it bothered him. His doctors, his psychologist, his fellow agents—especially Eggsy—all assumed that he mourned the deaths of those ignorant hate-mongers rather than being shaken at the excruciating loss of control. Merlin, he suspected, knew the truth, but had never said as much.  
  
“No,” was all he said. He didn’t want Eggsy’s pity—that wasn’t why he was doing this. He wanted _understanding_. Damn it.  
  
Eggsy didn’t appear convinced, but did look worried. “If you was a sociowhatsit, then you couldn’ love me, yeah? Cos me mum watched summat on the telly, an’ they said they isn’t capable of love or friendship or nuffin. Jus’ manipulation,” he said, a wry, lop-sided smile on his handsome face. “An’ you definitely are. You like Merlin. And I don’ fink I’m exaggeratin’ when I say it’s well obvious you’re bonkers for me.”  
  
Harry let out a slow breath and barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “A misconception,” he answered, with an even voice and a dismissive wave of the hand. “We’re capable of all manner of emotion, with the obvious exceptions of empathy and remorse, I suppose. But I’m certainly capable of friendship, Eggsy. I’m fond of Merlin, of course. And Percival. And I’m nothing short of devoted to you and little Daisy. Not to fret.”  
  
He could work with this.  
  
It wasn’t ideal—the best case scenario here would have been if Eggsy had simply believed him and moved on. After all, Harry wasn’t exactly _subtle_. He’d locked a gang of miscreants in a pub, for fuck’s sake, before beating them half to death within an hour of meeting the boy. He’d recruited him to an organization in which shooting a puppy and trying to drown them all in their sleep were normal initiation rites. He’d lost his temper and said things that, frankly, Harry would never had forgiven if they’d been directed at him, before fucking off to Kentucky and getting shot in the skull. He’d given Eggsy no reason to think he had any true inclination towards sentimentality outside of the attention he lavished on the boy himself, the camaraderie between trained killers at work, and his own surprising weakness towards playing Princess Tea Party.  
  
But this—the boy’s only worry being that Harry’s own emotional limitations meant he wasn’t capable of loving the ray of sunshine that was Eggsy Unwin—he could live with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't completely finished yet, but it is outlined. Outlining is like 75% of the battle for me.  
> -Amanda x


	2. Part 1: You'll damn well think of me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, cats and chicks. I wanna say how truly, deeply touched I am by the kind words, kudos, and subs you've given me for the prologue. I honestly hope I can live up to your expectations. 
> 
> My apologies for taking so long on this--I kept getting called into work! But I'm actually quite glad I didn't finish this until tonight, because certain elements of it only occurred to me this evening. 
> 
> Also, a formatting note--I fixed the 967 italics (gross exaggeration...mostly)  
> that were supposed to be in the prologue but for some reason were not. It's a small thing, but it really bothered me. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Harry was in the gym when Eggsy returned from his mission. He’d tried watching through Merlin’s terminal—he really had—but it was nigh on impossible to keep his professional composure while watching that middle-aged _bint_ practically grope Eggsy at the bar. He hated it, every second of it. Every touch.

It wasn’t a surprise, then, when—around the time he was fantasizing about yanking out the target’s coral lipstick-smeared teeth—Merlin kicked him out.

Once away from the mission feed, he’d been completely unable to control himself, a feeling Harry hated more than any other. He’d tried pacing. He’d tried meditating. He’d even tried a nice single-malt Scotch, yet the thrumming rage wouldn’t stop pulsing through his veins.

So he did the only thing he could do. He changed into the dove grey t-shirt and black sweat pants he kept in the locker room.

And beat the _fuck_ out of a training dummy. With a knife.

That’s how Eggsy found him, dripping with sweat and surrounded by foam padding that may have once been convincingly human-shaped. Finally, _finally_ starting to feel better. The boy— _damn him_ —quirked his brow with obvious cheekiness and said “Nice threads, there, bruv.”

With a wink, for fuck’s sake.

Young Galahad, of course, had exactly no room to talk. He looked a right mess. His dirty blond hair was dishevelled and sticking up at odd angles, the way it did after Harry fisted his hands through it as Eggsy’s clever mouth was wrapped around his cock. His silk tie—the same gaudy, horrible shade of coral as that awful woman’s lipstick—was stuffed haphazardly into a pocket, sticking slightly out and most assuredly wrinkled beyond salvaging. His shirt wasn’t even buttoned correctly.

Eggsy looked thoroughly ravished.

It set Harry’s teeth on edge.

No longer able to reign himself in, he stepped forward and grasped the younger man by the arm. He could smell the evening on him—red wine, the woman’s tacky Calvin Klein knockoff perfume, and that lingering, animalistic scent of sex. It made Harry want to retch as he dragged Eggsy to the edge of the gym, through the locker room doors and into the shower stall, fully clothed.

He was vaguely aware that Eggsy was speaking, but he couldn’t seem to make out the words over the rush of blood in his own ears. Perhaps more importantly, he didn’t particularly care. He did hear the indignant sputtering echoing on the shower tiles when he turned the faucet.

Harry was tempted to leave the water frigid, to punish the boy—not for his success in seducing lonely widows, but for his cheek—but changed his mind when the water soaked through his clothes to wet adrenaline-hot skin.

He raised the small knife, still snug and warm in his hand, to Eggsy’s chest, slipping it between the buttons to rest against pale flesh. Harry barely noticed the flash of fear in his lover’s eyes before drawing the blade sharply downward, almost effortlessly snipping the fine threads attaching buttons to soaked linen.

“Jesus _fuck,_ ‘Arry,” Eggsy breathes, relieved and confused and _yes,_ a bit turned on, if Harry’s ears aren’t deceiving him.

“Do. Not. Move,” is all he says, making quick work of the jacket and shirt, slicing them to ribbons and letting the tattered pieces pool soggily on the tile. He’s only vaguely glad that bloody tart had a fetish for poor young things, barely more than little boys dressing up in Daddy’s suits. He didn’t reckon ruining one of Eggsy’s bespoke suits would be altogether forgivable.

He still would, of course. He’d set fire to Eggsy’s whole damn wardrobe if it came down to it. _She_ had touched this suit. _She_ had tainted it. It wouldn’t ever touch his Eggsy’s skin again. It wouldn’t be so much as a reminder stuffed into the back of a closet.

No, it had to be destroyed. Harry needed to destroy it, could barely think of anything else as he scraped the knife downward against soft skin and hooking it under the waistband of his sodden trousers. He felt, rather than heard, the sharp intake of Eggsy’s breath, saw the near-frantic bobbing of his Adam’s apple as the slight serration snagged gently through the dark nest of curls there.

Harry tugged, once angled to the right and once again to the left, carefully avoiding Eggsy’s half-hard, eager cock as he cut. He dropped to his knees, letting the sopping pile of ruined clothes serve as a cushion and ripped along both slices, all the way down to the crisply-ironed cuffs at his ankles.

He helped Eggsy step out of his black –and-white chequered socks and scuffed Oxfords, and left them to fill up with water beside the ruined remnants of the contaminated suit.

Eggsy rested his hand to the back of Harry’s head, trying—and failing—to draw him closer. Harry did, however, look up at his lover’s handsome face. He noted the soft, pink lips parted invitingly, the pupils of those handsome blue-green eyes dilated in fear and arousal, the slight, sporadic flare of his nose as he struggled to control his ragged breath.

He’d never seen a more intoxicating sight, Harry thought, but still pulled away with a stern “ _No,_ Eggsy.”

Harry stood, discarding the dagger carelessly to the corner of the stall, before reaching for the shampoo. He worked it through Eggsy’s tresses gently at first, but roughened as he recalled how dishevelled they’d been at the end of the mission. He longed to erase every touch, every caress, _she_ ’d violated Eggsy with, and decided the next best thing was to scour them away.

Once Eggsy had allowed him to rinse the soap from his hair, he set to work with a flannel and a bar of soap.

He was rough, and he knew it, but the boy stayed both blissfully silent and blessedly pliant. He let Harry scrub his skin pink, allowed him access to every millimetre of his body and made not a single movement of his own volition until even Harry was satisfied that he couldn’t possibly be more clean.

Instead, Eggsy simply watched, eyes wide, until Harry finally returned the soap to the dish behind them, then _lunged,_ pushing the older man against the wall with a bruising kiss.

Harry allowed himself to be kissed, using his height advantage to wrest control back. He pushed and pressed Eggsy’s back into the shower controls while he struggled to turn them off, barely able to focus on anything but the way the boy’s luscious lip felt squeezed between his teeth.

After a few moments of stumbling with the handles, and two unsuccessful attempts by Eggsy to remove his wet workout kit, he pulled the boy out by the back of the neck. He paused only a moment to snag a small bottle from his open locker before leading the blond through the doors at the opposite end of the room.

The recruit dormitory was vacant. Even the thin, uncomfortable mattresses were stripped bare of their scratchy linens, leaving behind the mint-green plastic of an institutional bed. Harry pushed Eggsy down onto his stomach, still revelling in how readily the boy allowed himself to be pulled and posed, and made quick work of his clothes.

Their groans echoed in the empty room as Harry straddled his boy’s hips. The feeling of skin-on-skin, damp and hot, made him tremble. The feeling of his teeth, scraping and biting at Eggsy’s flesh in between sloppy, open-mouthed kisses made him frenzied. The sound of sharp, needy moans in his ears made him desperate.

He wanted to be thorough, to claim every inch of the boy’s skin with his mouth the way he’d done with his flannel, but as Eggsy began to buck his hips, rubbing his pert arse into Harry’s painfully hard cock, he found that he simply didn’t have the willpower.

He retrieved the bottle from where it had become pinned under grinding hips, and squeezed a large glob onto his fingers before slipping them swiftly into Eggsy’s needy body. He wasn’t gentle, not by any means, as he stretched Eggsy, but the younger man didn’t seem to mind in the least, arching into his hand and begging for _more, deeper, please._

And oh, how amazing it felt when he slicked himself up and entered Eggsy in a single forceful thrust. Fucking Eggsy always felt perfect, like slotting into a niche that was created just for him. Everything about it was superb.

But.

Tonight it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to _claim_ his young lover, to thrust in time with his hungry, pleading moans.

He needed _more,_ he needed _Eggsy._

Harry pressed himself on top of the younger man, pressed chest to back, not even holding up his own weight. He slid his arms under his lover, squeezing him, holding him close in so desperate a bear hug that he was only barely able to grind his hips into Eggsy’s arse. He took and took and took some more, all the while indulging himself in sucking mottled purple bruises and pressing sharp, red indentations into the back of the boy’s neck with his mouth.

He wanted to be closer, closer than they could ever get. He wanted to _consume_ Eggsy, to use every drop of him, flesh and soul, so that no one else could ever even consider laying a finger on him. He wanted Eggsy to be his and only his, forever, and to never have to listen to anything but the insensible chanting of “ _’Arry, ‘Arry, oh my bloody fuckin’ gawd, ‘Arry,”_ that echoed in the barracks before Eggsy clenched around him and coated the plasticised mattress with his orgasm.

And finally, finally, Harry was replete with pleasure and peace. Eggsy was boneless in his arms, molten around his cock. _His, his, his._

“Christ, Eggsy, I’m gonna— _Ah!_ ”

Shattered, Harry didn’t move for what seemed like an age, until his lovely, lovely Eggsy complained about being squashed. Even after he shifted them both to their sides, only reluctantly pulling his now-flaccid cock from that beautiful warmth, he kept his arms around Eggsy’s chest in a crushing embrace.

“That was fuckin’ intense,” huffed Eggsy, sounding anything but displeased. “You wanna talk ‘bout it?”

He was quiet for a bit, but spoke as Eggsy started to doze.

“I will never stand in the way of your missions, Eggsy. Galahad. I understand we must all do...unpleasant things in the name of Kingsman.” He struggled to keep his voice even.

“Er...alrigh’?”

Harry pushed on. “But when you think of being kissed, dearest. When you think of being _fucked,_ you will damn well think of me.”

Eggsy laughed—a full, rich laugh that sent vibrations through Harry’s chest—and turned to face his lover.

When he opened his mouth to respond, however, they were graced with and irritated Scottish voice over the loudspeaker.

“I am **NOT** going to be the one to disinfect that dormitory, gentlemen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The remaining installments are unlikely to be so...liberally sexual. Not because I don't love you or anything, but because I'm pretty sure even Eggsy would take a step back to evaluate life choices if Harry was like this frequently, and that's the man who joined an international spy organization because he had nothing better to do after ending up in the nick for grand theft auto. Also, I'm just not very good at it.  
> Thanks so much for reading!


	3. Part 2: Once for Eggsy, once for Kingsman, and once for the hell this evening was shaping up to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...don't like Eggsy's mum. 
> 
> Thank you once again for the outpouring of support for the previous chapter. I had a terrible day after mucking up an interview I had for a promotion, and your reviews and kudos got me through. 
> 
> I had Harry stop for grapes, as is the practice in many countries around the world, because the story behind the practice will never stop amusing me. That's the whole reason. It's the little things in life, guys.

Harry was in a decidedly foul mood. Tonight had been one masterful cock up.  
  
Someone in the logistics division—one of Merlin’s lab rats—had dropped the ball. Their dossier had suggested the mark, an insignificant dealer of methamphetamines who had inexplicably acquired weapons-grade plutonium, would be appreciative of a certain type of _gentlemanly_ attention.  
  
The mark was, it turned out, extremely homophobic, and Eggsy was outnumbered.  
  
The extraction team was responsible for cock up number two. Apparently, the pair of ex-Marines young Galahad was relying on to have his back if a sticky situation should arise had decided that a petty squabble over which of them would _drive the bloody lorry_ was a better use of their time. They’d completely missed the S.O.S transmission.  
  
Harry expected both unreliable soldiers to have bullets in their brains before sunrise. Kingsman was not an organisation that considered the lives of their agents flippantly. Retribution would be swift and brutal. Harry took comfort in that.  
  
The breakdown in communications, however, had meant that an ambulance had come to Eggsy’s aid before anyone from Kingsman could, which had, in turn, meant that Eggsy was in hospital rather than under private care at the Manor.  
  
The cherry on top, of course, came when Harry had popped ‘round to the shop and was trying to remember whether Eggsy liked green grapes or red.  
  
Merlin’s voice chirped in his ear that, apparently, Eggsy had been such a frequent patient at A &E the matron had recognized him. Being unconscious, she’d called in his mum.  
  
Having hacked into St Mary’s CCTV feed, Merlin informed him that Michelle Baker had entered her son’s room around the same time that Harry had entered Tesco’s.  
  
It was just bloody _perfect._ He’d be spending the evening with NHS medical staff and his little love’s idiot mother. It made him want to shoot the damned extraction duo himself, honestly. Once for Eggsy, once for Kingsman, and once for the hell this evening was shaping up to be.  
  
The things one does for love, Harry mused idly, finally settling on a nice bunch of green grapes and taking them to a rather bored-looking checkout girl.  
  
He spent a _ridiculous_ twenty-three minutes after arriving at A &E waiting to be buzzed through the doors between reception and the ward.  
  
_No, madam, I am not Gary Unwin’s father._  
  
_Yes, madam, I should be allowed to see him despite your strict family-only policy._  
  
_Matron, you can see I’m listed as Gary’s emergency contact. Surely that implies that he would want me there._  
  
He’d almost resorted to bribery.  
  
Eggsy was either still unconscious or asleep when Harry slipped into the room, Oxford’s squeaking on the over-waxed linoleum. Michelle was next to the bed, flipping through programmes on the telly and chewing her bubble gum in the same way a cow would masticate grass.  
  
“Good evening, Mrs. Baker.”  
  
The blonde—if one could really call her that with the ample length of dark-brown roots she’s allowed to grow in—snapped out of her mind-numbing clicking and narrowed her eyes at him.  
  
“Didn’t no one call you.”  
  
Harry sighed, and set Eggsy’s grapes on a tray before sitting down in the stiff hospital chair beside her. “And yet, here I am.”  
  
Gone was the bored woman of a moment ago. In her place was an indignant woman shaking a finger at him, her obviously fake fingernails both too long and too garish. Harry supposed they were garish on purpose, judging from the rest of the woman’s gaudy attire. He barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.  
  
“This is yer fault, somehow,” she accused. “I don’ know how, but it’s got yer bloody fingerprints al’over it.”  
  
Harry _did_ roll his eyes at that, but said nothing.  
  
“Yer poison, you are. Firs’ you get yer hooks in Lee, got ‘im killed. An’ now yer sniffin’ aroun’ my son!” Michelle started to cry and her over-done mascara started to run down her cheeks. “Won’ let Eggsy go the same way, lemme tell you.”  
  
The woman choked out a sob, and grasped at Eggsy’s unresponsive hand. She pressed it to her cheek in what Harry supposed was meant to be an affectionate, moving gesture, but she really only managed to coat the adhesive keeping her son’s IV attached with her inky tears.  
  
Rather than inspiring pity for a lonely widow afraid for her little boy, it drew his attention back to the boy himself. Eggsy looked like hell, to be frank. He was paler than Harry had seen him, and looked nothing short of battered. There was a bandaged wrapped around his head, covering his ears, and both his eyes were in the early stages of what Harry was sure would be very vivid bruising.  
  
His left cheek was swollen and his normally luscious, smirking lips were split.  
  
Tonight _had_ been a close call. Eggsy— _Galahad_ —was an agent, and they both knew the risk of any mission, but this...this was unacceptable. Harry hadn’t been worried, not even slightly, because he knew more than most how well-trained the boy was. Not to mention the supposed ease that was he was meant to have on this mission. This _was_ on Kingsman, and as their leader, on Harry.  
  
Her continued rambling, tearful implication that Harry was, however, somehow relishing in her son’s current state was simply _crossing the line._  
  
“That is quite enough, Michelle,” he began, keeping his tone as flat as possible. “I have no patience for your waterworks and Eggsy isn’t awake to fall victim to your displays of hysterics.”  
  
Michelle was predictably outraged. She dropped Eggsy’s fragile hand carelessly and leapt to her feet, only to wag her finger again.  
  
That was clearly her go-to motion. Eggsy clearly got his brains from his father, Harry thought, because this woman was an imbecile.  
  
“How dare you! I’m ‘is _mother_!” she screeched. “Tha’s my baby boy layin’ in that ‘ospital bed an’ it’s all yer fault! I ought to have you removed!”  
  
Which was, of course, _exactly the wrong thing_ to say.  
  
Harry reached out to carefully rearrange Eggsy’s hand and gently smooth the tubes coming from it. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Controlled. “I can assure you that if you make any attempt to do so, they’ll find your body in a back-alley skip, strangled by your own intestines and half-eaten by rats.”  
  
Michelle gasped.  
  
“You are no mother,” Harry continued in the same even voice, dabbing at the mascara on Eggsy’s hand with his pocket square. “A mother _takes care_ of her children. Provides for them. Protects them. You’ve done none of those things since the moment your husband died. Let’s be honest with one another. You aren’t afraid to lose your son. You’re afraid to lose your _benefactor._ ”  
  
She struck him, right across the face, with her open palm. “Now, see here! I did the best I could!”  
  
Harry laughed mirthlessly and ticked off her transgressions with his fingers. “You married a man who beat him, who pulled him out of class to run drugs. You turned a blind eye when he sold his body to put food on _your_ table because _your_ deadbeat husband got himself arrested. You stole away every chance he had to make something of himself—gymnastics, school, the Marines—for your petty need to keep him providing for your dysfunctional household, or perhaps you manipulated him _just because you could_.”  
  
“You—you—!” She raised her hand to strike him again, but he caught her hand almost effortlessly. He smirked at her, one hand squeezing her wrist in a vice, and the other gently wrapped around Eggsy’s still fingers.  
  
“Now, you and I are going to come to an understanding, Michelle. I won’t interfere with your life. I’ll not tell Eggsy to leave you to fend for yourself, as he should. I’ll not shatter his rose-coloured glasses by exposing you for the heartless bitch you are. You, equally, will _keep your mouth shut._ I am a powerful man with ears everywhere. If I so much as catch a _hint_ that you’ve tried to separate me from that boy, the very best you could hope for is that I shall carve your voice box from your throat. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”  
  
The tears, Harry was pleased to note, were real this time. The woman nodded.  
  
“I am pleased to hear it,” he said with a smile as he released her. “Have a wonderful evening, Mrs Baker. I shall make sure you’re notified when Eggsy wakes.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as pleased with this chapter, but it is what it is. Thanks for reading!


	4. Part 3: Cover your ears, my darling

It often surprised people to learn that Harry loved children. There was something about their wide-eyed innocence—the way they accepted the world in front of them for all its wonder and hardship—that drew him in.  
  
It also helped that they weren’t capable of the wilful ignorance that adults tended to display.  
  
Even with his general fondness for little ones, Daisy Baker was a bit of a special case. Harry _adored_ her. She was, to his mind, perfect in every way. Much like her brother.  
  
Daisy was a timid child when Eggsy had first moved her away from the estate. Eggsy led him to believe that it was the V-Day incident that had the girl so shaken, but from the way she so quickly blossomed into the happy, clever child that stood before him today, Harry suspected it had more to do with being away from her father. Or, he thought, more specifically, it had more to do with _Eggsy_ being away from her father.  
  
Back on the estate, Eggsy had found that one of the best things he could do for Daisy was to stay away from their flat. The boy’s presence nearly always caused a temper tantrum in the lowlife his mother kept in their home, and that temper tantrum was never safe for anyone, least of all Michelle and Daisy.  
  
Eggsy could run. Daisy could not.  
  
Now, fortunately, Eggsy—and by happy extension, Harry—could shower the little girl with as much attention and love as she could handle. The little girl was with them nigh on constantly when Eggsy wasn’t away on missions or on standby. Even then, Harry had her frequently.  
  
For once, Harry was pleased Michelle was so lacking in maternal feelings, because she’d send the little darling down the road to the house he shared with her brother any time the hundredth replay of “Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?” started dancing on her last nerve, or when she simply had better things to do. Eggsy, of course, had a more forgiving take on his mother’s habits. She was still recovering from years of abuse, he’d said, that she knows how much it means to Eggsy to be close to his sister. _And really, Harry, it’s great that she’s workin’ on herself, innit? Tha’ she’s got herself a job she likes an’ is makin’ friends. Mum deserves to be ‘appy._  
  
Harry didn’t give a toss about what Michelle got up to, honestly. What he did care about is that when Daisy’s with them, he could nearly convince himself that she’s _his_ daughter—that this tiny angel dressed in bullet-proof pink dresses and smiling Eggsy’s sun-bright smile truly belongs to them, with them. His own perfect little family.  
  
He could especially fool himself in moments like the one he was basking in. Michelle had gone on holiday—at both Eggsy and Harry’s cheerful encouragement—to Greece with a co-worker. His lover had, sadly been called away for the day—only to Northern Ireland, he should be home by breakfast—leaving Daisy to just him. It was a rare and precious moment.  
  
They were playing outside, with the little blonde running back and forth between the swing set and the Wendy house they’d had put in the back garden for her. Her dusty little Mary Janes left streaks on the plastic slide as she climbed up it the wrong way and she begged him to push her _higher, Hawwy, higher!_ on the swing until she decided, mid-air, that it was time for a tea party.  
  
Harry laughed when she rushed into her little white Wendy house, with its little fairy garden, and came out with a pink-and-red feather boa, which she wrapped around his neck glamorously before sending him in to fetch the tea things. JB, the world’s most useless guard dog, followed closely at his heels, doubtless hoping Harry will “accidentally” let a Hob Nob or two fall to the ground.  
  
Inside, confident that Daisy was safely ensconced in his walled garden, Harry set the kettle to boil. He arranged the girl’s favoured cups—the ones with kittens and roses painted on the side—on the tray, adding extra cubes of sugar to the dish and arranging Jaffa Cakes neatly on a saucer.  
  
He was nearly to the doorway—a decent enough vantage point to watch Daisy play while listening for the kettle to whistle—when JB began to bark his little squished head off. He grabbed his gun—already fitted with a silencer in deference to the residential area—from the breadbox before running.  
  
Outside, JB was running back and forth on his little brick patio, barking uselessly but not putting a single paw into the grass. Daisy, however, practically laying in the lawn, petting a filthy black dog he recognized as the neighbour’s. She was giggling madly.  
  
Harry sighed and slipped the gun into the back of his trousers, idly scanning the fence for the hole that the mutt had dug _this time._ He’d have to have _yet another_ discussion with Mr Ellis.  
  
A pained yelp had his head snapping back to Daisy, and was just in time to see the dog snap at the tiny hand wrapped reverently in its fur.  
  
Daisy howled.  
  
It only took two long strides before he was next to her, pushing away the dog—now trying to lick the tears from her little red face as she screamed—and scooping her up. Her tiny hand, so small and fragile in his own, had a small scrape, but no blood. She wasn’t hurt, only frightened.  
  
And she was _very_ frightened. She cried pitifully into Harry’s boa, tears and saliva soaking through it to cardigan below. She chanted “Bad dog! Mean!” over and over, wagging the finger of her unbitten hand at the dog in a fair imitation of her mother.  
  
Harry tried to soothe her, but still she screamed.  
  
JB barked from the patio, impotently upset for the tiny human’s safety.  
  
The black dog woofed, going down onto its forepaws and bounding up again, dancing in playful circles at Harry’s feet.  
  
The kettle shrieked from inside the kitchen.  
  
Harry pressed the little girl’s flaxen head into his shoulder and whispered to her as he reached behind him.  
  
“Cover your ears, my darling.”  
  
Then he shot the dog in the head.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick Author's Note: I did some research and apparently, silencers do not, in fact, completely silence a gunshot. I was as shocked as you are. Weird stuff. Anyway, it does actually make the shot much quieter, but I still reckon that, in hindered by hands about the ears, it'd still be loud enough to scare the bejeesus out of a small child. 
> 
>  
> 
> Next time, we're back to SuperSpy™ HQ. Thanks for reading!


	5. Part 4: We are, first and foremost, gentlemen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long...I feel as if I haven't left work in weeks. 
> 
> I continue to be surprised and grateful for the outpouring of support you've all given me.

Agent Kay was dead.  
  
Bespoke suits, even ones woven with Kevlar, do little to prevent the sharp drag of a switchblade against one’s jugular.  
  
As missions went, it could have gone better—one dead agent, another with a shattered shoulder and an unacceptable loss of civilian life caused by an unfortunate chain reaction of C4 explosives.  
  
It also could have gone much worse. The ex-KGB arms dealer was very, very dead, Eggsy was alive, the intel was safely in Merlin’s possession, and Kay’s wife had a body to bury.  
  
All told, Harry declared to the morose gathering of agents sipping brandy around the table, not Kingsman’s darkest hour. The threat had been neutralized. Gideon Chase, codenamed Kay, sacrificed his life not in vain, but for the greater good.  
  
“I expect each of you to present your proposals no later than Monday at noon. Have a nice weekend, agents.”  
  
Eggsy, of course, refused to acknowledge the less-than-subtle dismissal, choosing instead to stare dazedly at the table while the others filed out. Harry could hardly blame him, to be honest. His young replacement looked more than a bit worse for wear, dishevelled and scraped up as he was. And that wasn’t even taking into account the way his arm was strapped around his ribcage, pinned into place for his poor, destroyed shoulder to heal.  
  
Harry swelled with pride. Their doctor had informed him, with the boy laying drugged between them, that he’d done more damage to his bone dragging Kay’s lifeless body from the building before it exploded than the mark had done to it. His noble, soft-hearted boy was a bit of an idiot, and Harry couldn’t help but love him for it.  
  
“I ain’t got no proposal, ‘Arry,” Eggsy mumbles, fiddling with his glass. “I didn’ even pass tha’ damn test, don’ know nobody who could. Le’ Merlin pick somebody.”  
  
He slid his chair closer to Eggsy’s, and put a calming hand on the boy’s uninjured shoulder. “It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid. Merlin can’t oversee the recruits if he’s put one of them there. Stacking the deck isn’t something Kingsman can afford, dearest.”  
  
Eggsy’s handsome eyes rose to meet his, shining in a way they hadn’t in days. “I can watch ‘em. All I really gotta do is make sure they don’t kill themselfs, yeah?”  
  
“Eggsy—“  
  
“No, really, guv, Merlin’s a busy man and I got nuffin’ on my plate until my arm heals, right? Can’t just send me home and make me twiddle my thumbs!” He laughed. “Well, thumb, anyway. I’ll be chattin’ up Mr Pickles ‘fore the week’s out, swear down.”  
  
Harry knew he’d lost even before his boy stuck his bottom lip out pitifully.  
  


☂Ⓚ☂

  
  
Harry was surprised to note that Eggsy goes back to his chav wear for the training. At first, he’d thought it was simply easier to get in and out of with his shoulder the way it was, but happened upon the younger man struggling into his pullover one morning when he went back to their bedroom for a tie that _wasn’t_ covered in marmalade.  
  
It wasn’t Eggsy’s only peculiar training method, either. The recruits couldn’t be seen running across the grounds without Eggsy bringing up the rear, strapped arm and all. His left-hand marksmanship improved exponentially as he practiced with the others, and he was even known to sit with them while they studied, his feet propped up on a desk that was likely older than the Queen herself, reading _Pygmalion_ of all things.  
  
Harry drew the line when he checked in on them and found a sweaty young Galahad hovering over one of the older prospects. Eggsy was smirking and the other man was swearing a blue streak while holding a bloodied towel to his face.  
  
He was furious, of course, and barely held himself together long enough to pull the boy into the hall before scolding. “Absolutely not, Eggsy. There will be no sparring.”  
  
“They gotta learn somehow. Fightin’ each ovver isn’t doing them any good.”  
  
“I said ‘no,’ and that’s final, Galahad. I’ll not have you buggering up your shoulder permanently as some demented training exercise. Good lord, I never saw Merlin take you or Lancelot to the mats.”  
  
Eggsy gave him a wink. “You was in a coma, wasn’t you?”  
  
The glare he got in return shut him up nicely, Harry thought.  
  


☂Ⓚ☂

  
  
Even so, the unorthodox training methods weighed on his mind as the days turned into weeks and the recruits dropped one by one. Not much, mind, but enough that he brought it up to Merlin over tea one afternoon.  
  
“He thinks it’ll make things more difficult on them,” he said. “They underestimate him like this. They don’t take him seriously, and go into any situation already thinking they’re superior to him. And when he orders more laps, he gives the impression of a bloke who’s reluctantly following orders rather than the sadist calling the shots while they’re running until they vomit.”  
  
“How does that help?”  
  
Merlin turned his head towards the window, watching the remaining recruits and puppies running in the distance. “It makes the tests that much more difficult in comparison. He makes the training seem like a game, like they’re kids playing spy. But then they wake up tied to train tracks and it’s that much more terrifying.”  
  
“I’m surprised he’s taking it so seriously,” he says, turning to watch as well. “I rather thought he’d be much more lax than you were.”  
  
“He blames himself for Kay, I think. He wants the new one to be better prepared, better trained.”  
  
Harry scoffs. “Kay was an excellent agent. Eggsy knows that.”  
  
“I couldn’t agree more. Kay was a fine Kingsman. That doesn’t change the fact that he bled to death right in front of your soft-hearted boy.”  
  


☂Ⓚ☂

  
  
As “Arthur,” he made a point of meeting each of the recruits individually, wanting to foster trust in a way that Chester didn’t. After all, if it had been Harry or even Merlin administering the dog test, who knew if Eggsy would have trusted it.  
  
For the most part, the meetings went well. There’s one or two that he even takes a bit of a shine to. One young lady—Percival’s suggestion, if he’s not mistaken—cheekily asked what she has to do to get _his_ job.  
  
One, Elijah Rothschild, could only be described as odious. Both Merlin and Eggsy had mentioned him as being disrespectful and arrogant, traits Harry personally considered unforgivable in their line of work.  
  
However, the young man had passed all of his tests with skill even Merlin couldn’t find fault with, making him the one Harry was most interested in speaking with. He wanted to assess whether they could mould Rothschild into something worthwhile.  
  
Twenty minutes and a pot of tea into their meeting, Harry had witnessed none of the abhorrent behaviour he’d been assured the young man exhibited. Well, he _was_ a Chelsea supporter, but that was _technically_ not a disqualifiable offence. Just poor taste.  
  
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Harry brought the conversation back around to Kingsman, inquiring after the puppy he’d chosen.  
  
Apparently, his German Shepherd, Saxon, was some sort of canine prodigy, if Rothschild could be believed.  
  
Funny, that. Just this morning he’d approved a request for two new mattresses to be placed in the trainees’ barracks because Saxon had gnawed through them during the night.  
  
“And your own training, Elijah? How are you faring?”  
  
Rothschild placed his teacup gently on the table before him. “As well as anyone can expect, I believe, sir,” he said. “We’re all hanging in until the real trainer arrives.”  
  
Whatever Harry had expected to hear, that was not it. “I beg your pardon?”  
  
“It’s completely understandable, of course,” the young man went on, completely oblivious to the landmines he was dancing around. “I’m sure your agents are very busy indeed. It’s simply not prudent to waste their expertise until our number was whittled down to a handful.”  
  
Harry stared for a moment, completely baffled at whatever faulty logic Rothschild had constructed to reach that conclusion. “I believe there’s been some misunderstanding. Galahad will be the trainer for the duration.”  
  
“Galahad?”  
  
And really, that was just insulting. Did the thought that their trainer was a Kingsman agent never even breach his obviously thick skull?  
  
“Eggsy.”  
  
Finally— _finally_ —Rothschild realized his faux pas. Harry could see the awkwardness and mild disgust play out on his face, much to his disappointment. A Kingsman with no poker face would be a very poor Kingsman indeed  
  
. “Yes, well,” he starts, shifting in his seat. “I think it’s just splendid you’ve taken him in. How lucky for Egg—Galahad to get the opportunity to...you know, do something worthwhile.”  
  
Harry stiffened. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”  
  
Rothschild faltered, just a bit, but carried on anyway. “It’s just...You and I, sir, we’re _gentlemen._ He’s...well, if he wasn’t here, I daresay he’d be in some estate, living on the dole, wouldn’t he? It was kind of you to offer him a position.”  
  
And, there it was, that lovely dark feeling. The one that filled him up and coiled like a snake in his gut. The one that filled his mind with the beautiful, horrible bloodlust that made him feel whole.  
  
Harry smiled.  
  
“You’re right, of course,” he said. “Galahad is a very lucky young man. He did have some...trouble fitting in during his training, if I recall.”  
  
It wasn’t strictly a lie. Eggsy was constantly at odds with Arthur’s proposal.  
  
He went on. “It was the parachute test that set him apart, really.”  
  
Rothschild sat up sharply. “The parachute test, sir?”  
  
Harry made a show of looking embarrassed at his slip of the tongue. A very convincing one, if he did say so himself. “I suppose the cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it, son?”  
  
The shared a chuckle, and Harry drew his hand thoughtfully along his jaw line. “You were certainly right, of course. Kingsman is...We are, first and foremost, gentlemen, and it’s always a shame when the...less worthy make it through.”  
  
The young man nodded sympathetically. “I’m sure it’s a real disappointment, sir.”  
  
“Yes, very much so,” he agreed. “I don’t imagine, gentleman that you are, it would be too horrid of me to give you a little...leg up on one _tiny_ test.”  
  
He was laying it on thick, now, and half-thought the prospect would see through it. Dim, close-minded, and a Chelsea fan. He’d really have to talk to Geraint later about his abysmal judge of character.  
  
For now, though, he leaned forward conspiratorially and let the darkness within him positively _thrum_ with victory when Rothschild did the same. “You see, we have a test—your next one, now that I think about it—in which we have you lot jump out of a plane before telling you that someone has no parachute.”  
  
Rothschild gasped. Harry laughed, and waved a dismissive hand.  
  
“Oh, your face! No, of course everyone has parachutes. We’d never do such a thing! Honestly, Elijah, what do you take us for?”  
  
Relieved, Rothschild asked “Then what’s the point? To see if we work together to get everyone down alive?”  
  
“Well...That’s certainly what we say. Galahad has no doubt been beating teamwork into your skulls from the beginning.” He paused for dramatic emphasis, loving every second that imbecile hung on his words. “But, no, it’s rather more obvious than that. We’re weeding you out, the bleeding-heart weak from the ruthless strong.”  
  
His dim-witted companion appeared confused, so Harry went on.  
  
“A Kingsman must have what it takes to make difficult decisions. We must all have that instinct for survival to get us through sticky situations. Galahad...Well, Eggsy was fearless. He abandoned his cohort almost immediately. Not only did he hit the mark first—he holds the record for fastest drop, I believe—he didn’t so much as look back to make sure the other’s made it. It was truly inspiring. We knew then that he had the makings of a true Kingsman.”  
  
Harry watched the plan form in the smug face across from him and knew young Mr Rothschild would never again sit at the “Round” Table.  
  
Or any table, really.  
  


☂Ⓚ☂

  
  
“For fuck’s sake, Harry, you didn’t have to kill him.”  
  
Thankfully, Merlin waited until Eggsy peeled out of the room with Lancelot, racing up to the grassy landing pad to deal with the tragic training “accident” and screaming for medical to meet them there. Harry thought it was it’s sweet, honestly, the way Eggsy let himself believe that there was any possibility that the recruit survived a three thousand-metre freefall.  
  
He should’ve called for the groundskeepers, really. They’d have been more useful.  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Mr Rothschild’s death was an unfortunate incident caused by his own arrogance and lack of compassion.”  
  
Harry met his friend’s reproachful gaze with a smile. It was always nice to see a plan come together.  
  
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not satisfied with this chapter, but I think if I stare at it any longer, I'll rage quit the whole thing.
> 
> Next up--Harry and Dean have a nice chat. 
> 
> Also, there will be two one-shots coming. One will be pure fluff-n-stuff--the Princess Tea Party that Polaris has so patiently waited for. The other will be the 50th review "prize." Majoline requested an outsider POV in which Harry and Eggsy get caught in flagrante delicto. 
> 
> :)


	6. Part 5: You and I are about to become such good friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all. You've been so good to me. 
> 
> As a warning...this selection is pretty graphic, possibly the most graphic I've ever written. I, personally, have read much, much worse, and I'm no torture expert, but it contains depictions of torture. If you're feeling squeamish or would just like to avoid such grisly mental images, feel free to read to the ☂Ⓚ☂ and know that things don't go well for Dean.

Harry considered himself a rather reasonable man, no matter what Percival said.

Yes, alright, he did have an unfortunate habit of killing people who failed to live up to the basic expectations of human decency and good manners, but he really didn’t consider that a _character flaw_. It was more...taking one for the team, as it were, or taking out the rubbish.

It irritated him, a bit, how few people saw the...bright side of his particular vocation. It seemed to Harry that fulfilling his urges was much the same as what he did when he Galahad. He did the dirty work, without recognition, for the greater good.

What was the difference, really, between disarming a dirty bomb to save thousands in Cardiff city centre and choking the life out of a junkie who had abysmal enough manners to harass young women on the street?

No, what he did in his...private life did as much for the happiness of society as what he did in his professional life, if on a smaller scale. So what if it satisfied his own dark, selfish urges at the same time? All the more reason, to Harry’s mind.

Much more irritating than the implication that he needed assistance of the mental health variety was the playful, mocking way that Merlin and Percival insisted that he made a habit of killing anyone who “wronged” Eggsy.

It was only _twice_. And he insisted that it wasn’t _about_ Eggsy. Those three men had to be taken out for the sake of _Kingsman_.

How could he expect his agents to jump headfirst into danger when they couldn’t be sure the extraction team would be there when needed? How could he allow someone into their organization who was the very antithesis of what Kingsman stood for?

It was true that Eggsy was the catalyst in both situations, but it wasn’t as if he went around slaughtering anyone the boy came in contact with. He wasn’t such a violent beast that he didn’t recognize that their young Galahad could fight his own battles. He didn’t have to _protect_ Eggsy. He didn’t have to _kill for_ Eggsy.

This was a sentiment he repeated to himself often.

It was also one that went out the window when Eggsy came home three hours late with a nasty, mottled bruise covering his cheek.

Eggsy, bless him, took one look at Harry’s face and spread his arms out in a futilely placating gesture. “Now, ‘Arry, I took care o’ it. Everyfin’s all good.”

“What happened?”

“Dead serious, ‘Arry, I—“

Harry crowded forward, grasping Eggsy’s handsome face. He turned it into the light to get a better view of the bruise. His cheek was slightly puffy, but definitely not broken—a sign of an unskilled brawler with a loose punch. Not a professional, then. “What. Happened?” he repeated. He tried to keep his voice calm, but knew that his impatience was seeping out.

Eggsy stayed predictably silent. Once upon a time, Harry saw this stubborn refusal to snitch was endearing and admirable. These days, it was mostly inconvenient and annoying.

He sighed. “Eggsy, I am the head of an international espionage organization. Please don’t do me the disservice of thinking I couldn’t find out exactly what happened to your face in within the hour. It’s insulting.”

Eggsy pulled away, groaning, and plopped down on the sofa. “There’s a new girl at Daisy’s school. A teacher.”

The boy wasn’t looking at him, and Harry wasn’t about to hinder what was very obviously the confession he’d asked for by interrupting. It was a close thing, though, because there was no way a nursery school teacher had landed a punch on a trained assassin.

“She didn’ know Daisy’s dad ain’t allowed to pick her up.”

Everything in Harry went cold.

Before he could say anything, Eggsy looked at him, hands reaching out to tug Harry’s shirt sleeve. “She’s fine,” he said quickly. “I got ‘er. She’s at Mum’s watchin’ Mulan.”

He let himself be pulled closer, let Eggsy wrap his arms around his hips and press his forehead into Harry’s stomach, let his fingers tangle themselves into Eggsy’s soft hair.

“I kicked ‘is door in. Righ’ off the hinges,” he laughed. “Like Action Man or summat. Now, ‘e didn’ like that, o’ course, so, ya know, he took a swing.”

Eggsy snuggled closer, wrinkling Harry’s crisp white shirt. “But then my gun was in ‘is face an’ he wasn’ so feisty. Gave Dais over wif no more hassle. Dean don’t care about nuffin more’n saving ‘is own skin.”

Harry took a deep breath, struggling to stay calm against the twitching darkness that was filling him up. He could tell that Eggsy was giving him a...sanitized version of events. He did it with dangerous missions, too—downplaying his injuries, primarily. “Did you kill him?”

“Christ, ‘Arry. Course not.”

“Is he in hospital?”

“No.”

He sighed. From the way Eggsy pinched at his side, he’s sure that the boy thought he was frustrated at him for not finishing the job.

It couldn’t be further from the truth. He was _relieved_. He could _have_ this. He could have Dean. He could make him _suffer_ , truly suffer, for the things he’d done to Harry’s family.

It had been so, so long since he’d had the chance to truly let himself go. The parachute incident, as people were calling it, was months ago, and even that didn’t have any real _satisfaction_. What he’d told Merlin was true—he’d only really given the boy a chance to fall on his own sword.

But this? This was practically a gift.

He smiled down at his beautiful boy. “Did you at least put ice on your cheek?”

☂Ⓚ☂

Waiting for Dean to wake up was, frankly, tedious.

It was always the most tedious part, frankly. Not only was he practically shaking in anticipation of what was to come, there wasn’t much to keep one amused in conveniently abandoned mills. He used to bring along books to read, but they’d invariably be sprayed with blood or some such. It just seemed wasteful.

He contented himself with checking Dean’s restraints once more before sitting across from him. Their chairs were identical—sturdy wooden chairs that had been left in the foreman’s office. They were heavily graffitied—Lucky Dean got the one covered in cocks, because, really, it was just _vulgar_ —but would assuredly take quite a bit of struggling. Ah, the craftsmanship of yesteryear.

Dean was, of course, tightly bound. Lengths of sturdy rope coiled around the man’s ankles, waist, chest and wrists. He wasn’t tied up quite tightly enough to cut off circulation, but tightly enough to give the _impression_ that it would. It had taken him many years to perfect that.

Harry had left his victim ungagged. He couldn’t wait to find out how beautifully screams would echo in such a large, empty space.

As if recoiling from Harry’s musings, the other man stirred. There were a few moments of sleepy, slow confusion before they gave way to panic.

“Ah, Dean. I’m so glad you could join me,” he said, talking over the man’s frantic swearing as pleasantly as if he were enquiring about the weather. “I was beginning to think I’d gotten the dosage wrong. How terribly disappointing that would have been.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

He smiled and uncrossed his legs. “My name is Harry. I’m a...friend of the family, you might say. And you and I are about to become _such_ good friends indeed.”

“Listen, Granddad, I don’t think—“ he started, face red with impotent rage. Harry knocked him in the side of the head with the handle of his umbrella.

“Now, Dean. I have a very important question for you.”

“Yeah? Wot?”

“Are you right handed, or left handed?”

Dean huffed a laugh. “Fuck you, old man.”

Harry rolled his eyes and stood, resting his umbrella against his empty chair. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said. “What a good friend you are. You see, I was only going to break your dominant hand, but now I think I’ll break both. But first, I think you need a bit of a lesson on throwing a punch.”

Harry made a show of situating his fist correctly—thumb tucked out of harm’s way, the knuckles of his index and middle fingers thrust slightly forward—and struck Dean as hard as he could in the side of the face.

The resulting crack was loud in the empty room, as was the angry swearing that followed. Dean’s cheek began to swell instantly.

Not one to slow down when he’s on a roll, Harry turned his attention to Dean’s left hand. He started with the man’s little finger, pulling it further and further out until a jagged bone punctured its way through the flesh. He wished for a moment that he had gagged Dean—the snap of the bone was disappointingly drowned out by the man’s screaming.

“Holy fuck, you mad fucking geezer! What the fuck are you—“

Harry broke the next finger. He heard that one.

He felt _amazing_. This feeling, this power, this overwhelming darkness was what he lived for. He’d lived his entire life, fifty odd years, thinking that these stolen, bloody moments were the only times he’d feel truly happy, that his soul would feel _settled_.

Until Eggsy swaggered into his life.

And this degenerate would have taken that away from him today, if his boy hadn’t have been stronger. He’d _taken_ Daisy. He’d _hurt_ Eggsy. And now he’d pay.

Harry broke the third finger and waited until Dean’s agonized screams died down before breaking his thumb as well.

“Now, there is a crucial lesson to be learned here, Dean,” he said, grasping the index finger of his companion’s mangled hand. “We mustn’t touch what isn’t ours.”

_Snap_.

“I dunno what you’re talking about, mate, I swear, I ain’t never seen you before!”

“Yesterday, you threatened people very dear to me. You abducted a little girl. You _struck_ Eggsy. These actions are unacceptable, Dean, and you’ll spend these last precious hours of your life regretting them.”

Dean was practically howling at this point and it took a bit for Harry’s words to sink in through the pain. He started laughing, a mad, hysterical edge clinging to the sound. “Eggsy? Oh, fucking hell, this is about Eggsy?”

Harry didn’t respond. He was content to let the man laugh himself out.

For a bit.

“Oh, this if fuckin’ rich, this is. How much ya pay him so that he’ll letcha stick it up ‘is arse? I been wonderin’ an’ all.”

He squeezed Dean’s hand. “If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your mouth, I shall be forced to cut it out.”

Dean laughed again. “This is fuckin’ ridiculous, mate. Ya gotta see that. You’re breakin’ a stranger’s fuckin’ bones for a bloody rentboy.”

Harry sighed and retrieved some tools from a nearby table. “You were warned,” he said before prying the man’s jaw open and inserting the dental block. “You can’t say that you weren’t warned.”

He was finally getting the kind of struggle he’d anticipated. Dean shook his head wildly, making the frightened, guttural sounds of a trapped animal. Harry trapped the man’s slimy tongue with a pair of clamping pliers and yanked it out.

His knife was sharp—after all, a gentleman always maintains his tools for the utmost efficiency—and sliced through the muscle as easily as it would soft butter. Blood flowed from Dean’s mouth with all the force of a waterfall.

Harry tossed the limp, useless tongue onto the grimy floor.

“Now, I believe you still have five unbroken fingers. Let’s see what we can do to remedy that, hmm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured anything more would be excessive.
> 
> Only one chapter left, I'm sad to say.


	7. Epilogue: Who Harry was when he thought nobody was looking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I'm sorry this has taken so long. There was work, and then I was in the hospital with--if you can believe this--freaking pancreatitis. Like Mr Pickle. Ridiculous. Then it took me forever to actually write this (and I feel like it's basically written as if a 12 year old was doing it, but the struggle to piece words together was just unreal. SOOOOO SORRY! in advance)
> 
> This chapter is technically not an epilogue, but I wanted my chapter titles to have a certain balance. Also, as this is the +1, so it's from Eggsy's POV...which I have decided I do not like. Yikes.

Of all the variations in missions he was sent on, Eggsy loved double-agent missions most.

He worked with Roxy more than any of the others, of course. She was always fun to be around and had this almost magical ability to get out of any situation using only a hair pin and one of them tiny fold-up mirrors birds kept in their handbags. It was absolute madness and he loved every minute of it.

He worked with Percival pretty often, too. Eggsy was surprised at how much he liked Roxy's mentor. Alastair, which was basically the poshest name Eggsy had ever heard, was a cheesy, nerdy ninja—you couldn't ask for a sneakier bloke to break into a terrorist bunker with, but you'd wind up hearing more bad puns than anyone ought to and walk away knowing way more about some bloody robots in Battlestar Galactica than you'd ever want to. Still, it was sort of endearing.

Best of all, though, were the rare missions he got to so with Harry.

As Arthur, Harry wasn't allowed to go out more. Merlin wouldn't let him. Their hocus-pocus hacker kept spewing all sorts of rubbish about them needing the bloke running the show to actually, you know, run the show rather than go gallivanting off to beat up human traffickers.

Eggsy didn't know if Harry had asserted his status as Merlin's goddamned boss or if Merlin simply got sick of dealing with Harry's crankiness.

Either way, he was grateful for it. Working with Harry was a gift from God himself.

Harry was just as lethal as he had been that first day in the pub. It was a miracle, really, that after two comas, a gunshot wound to the head, and nearly three years behind a desk, the older man still moved with all the same deadly grace that had originally drew Eggsy to him.

And _now_ he was able to slot himself neatly at Harry's six, moving in perfect, devastating choreography.

He'd never get enough of this, of watching Harry dispatch a roomful of armed minions. They were after the client list of a major arms dealer, who was already slumped over his desk, Eggsy's bullet lodged somewhere behind his temple. They'd fought their way through the compound, catching torrent after torrent of ammunition with bulletproof tweed.

There, in the dimly-lit office, they were down to five minions.

One went after Harry, clearly picking him out as the older, weaker opponent. Harry jabbed with his umbrella, pushing a button to release a long, sharp dagger through the henchman's eye and into his brain.

Two—a bald, stocky bloke—rugby tacked Eggsy to the ground, knocking both the wind out of the agent and the blade loose from his shoe. Galahad kicked up, nicking not only Two, but also one of the others. Three was distracted enough that the shot he was aiming went wide, narrowly missing Harry. He was dead before he could aim a second time.

Harry was fighting Four and Five together. He moved so fluidly between them that a ballerina would be jealous.

Galahad stepped forward and blew Four's brains out in just enough time to watch Harry slash Five's throat with practiced ease.

This was Harry's element, he thought while they caught their breath. The small, windowless room reeked of cordite, copper and sweat. Half a dozen bodies littered the floor around them, and Harry--oh god, Harry looked so fucking _wild_.

His dark eyes seemed impossibly darker in the shoddy lamp light, but the spray of blood on his face nearly glowed. He was still breathing heavy, still looking around the room like he wanted something to kill, still wearing that hungry-predator expression on his handsome face.

This was, Eggsy knew, the real Harry. This was who Harry was when he thought nobody was looking. This was who Harry was when you peeled away all those posh layers of bespoke tailoring and genteel breeding.

Eggsy wasn't stupid, okay? He knew what Merlin thought, that he was some stupid little fly who didn't realize he was making himself comfortable in a spider web. Harry probably thought the same bloody thing, whether he confessed about being a sociopath or not.

Everybody always underestimated Eggsy Unwin.

But he _knew_ about Harry. He knew all about him.

He knew that Arthur's signature sat on the bottom of the paperwork ordering the execution of Stan and Frank, the extraction guys.

He knew his mum was fucking terrified of his boyfriend, even if she didn't say nothing, even if he couldn't pin down exactly what had happened.

He knew that Dean didn't die during a drug deal gone wrong, and frankly he was a bit insulted that Harry thought he'd believe that for a second. Even if the timing wasn't _way too bloody convenient,_ he was a spy--one who barely even had to use his skills to break into the morgue. The things he's seen when he pulled back the sheet…well, it definitely wasn't the work of no random street rat looking to get his nose cold.

So he knew. He'd always known, regardless of what anybody else thought. And while he wasn't... _okay_...with Harry's hobbies, he accepted them.

This was just how Harry was, at his core. Nothing could change that--and, truth be told, Eggsy wouldn't if he could.

He loved Harry--not just the Harry that picks out tiny lavender Mary Janes for Daisy, or even the Harry who fucks him until he forgets how to breathe. All of him.

This Harry—animalistic, deadly, sexy as hell—was so far away from the composed gentleman he normally saw. His hair was dishevelled, his fine suit was covered in blood, and his neatly-manicured fingers were twitching, as though he was itching to jab a knife into someone. God, he was hot like this, so barely in control.

And so Eggsy kissed him, nearly tripping over a dead body or two to get close enough.

Harry made a small, surprised noise in the back of his throat before leaning down into the kiss. It was as feral as Harry himself, all teeth and tongue and grasping, desperate fingers twisting in fabric, yanking each other ever closer.

Eggsy pulled away for breath but took one look at the Harry’s handsome, blood-smeared face and pulled him back down.

“Galahad—“ Harry panted between swipes of Eggsy’s tongue. “The mission...”

“The mission’s all done but the daring escape, _Arfur_ ,” he answered. “An’ I don’ know if you noticed, but there ain’t nobody left to chase us.”

Eggsy slid his hands down his lover’s sweat-damp shirt before resting his fingers on Harry’s belt buckle. “Got us a bit of privacy, yeah?”

Harry turned away from Eggsy’s mouth, panting. He watched nimble young fingers make quick work of his belt, then the buttons of his trousers and attempt to slide down into his pants before being trapped by the wrists with Harry’s strong hands.

“Wait...this...” Harry gave his head a cobweb-clearing shake. “It’s a bad location. Tactically. If anyone comes in...”

He pulled away, leaving Eggsy hard and frustrated while he strode over to the desk. Harry made quick work of emptying the dead man’s pockets—a key card, a gun, a memory stick, a wallet—and hefted him up by the shoulders and out of the chair before dropping him uncaringly to the floor.

He sat down looking like sin incarnate—face covered in blood, trousers undone, legs spread almost lewdly—and smiled over at Eggsy. “Come on, then.”

Eggsy wasted no time at all settling on the chair along with Harry, snogging him senseless. The chair swivelled and creaked while they rutted shamelessly against each other, warning them in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t built for two grown men, but going unheeded.

Harry’s mouth traced his jawline with sharp, nibbling teeth and soft, growling moans as Eggsy freed his granite-hard prick from the prison of his cotton pants.

Eggsy has always loved how responsive Harry is, how it only takes a bit of direct, focused attention to make Harry shed his self-control like a snake sheds its skin. It makes Eggsy feel powerful and sad all at once—how love starved must Harry have been before he came along?

He bucked his hips up into Eggsy’s firm grip, making the chair groan as much as Harry. Eggsy, suddenly horribly certain one of them would end up in A&E with broken cock if the chair gave out, slid to the floor and eagerly, hungrily wrapped his lips around Harry’s cock.

He knew, with all the adrenalin and desperation pressing down on them, that they wouldn’t last long. And really, with the only somewhat unlikely possibility that mad gunman could burst through the door to check on his mates, it wasn’t the time for long, leisurely blowjobs, was it?

Eggsy focused on the motion of his tongue, rolling it hard against the pulsing underside of Harry’s cock, letting the bitter flavour of pre-cum coat his tongue. Harry’s voice was rough and quiet in his ears, panting praise and curses in equal measure while his frantic fingers tugged harder and harder at Eggsy’s hair, until his eyes watered, until Harry filled his mouth with a broken shout and the hand in his hair turned gentle and petting.

He leaned back on his heels and gave Harry a cheeky wink.

“Love you, ‘Arry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank you all for reading this, for encouraging me, and for just all around being awesome, lovely people. It's meant a lot to me. <3 I look forward to writing more within this fandom in the future.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [mandigolightly](http://mandigolightly.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come shout at me.
> 
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